


Anchorage

by miss_nettles_wife



Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: Asexual Character, Crying, Disability, Gen, Nightmares, Sign Language, Slavery, mentioned non con, mute character, no non con actually in story, non verbal communication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 12:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6116766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_nettles_wife/pseuds/miss_nettles_wife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And then he feels Charlie's hands on his singlet, trying to anchor himself to Earth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anchorage

**Author's Note:**

> Hey im Mitzi and I love to sin. Here's a slavery AU that I gone and did. Huge freakin warning right now: there is no non con in this fic, but it is openly discussed, as well as the notion of slavery aus where a slaves right to consent is non existent. Plz keep that in mind. And finally: yes, Charlie is meant to be asexual.

Lawson needs help. That's it. The simple face of life. 

It's humiliating, naturally. Needing help with bathing, changing clothes, things he's been doing all his life. And if Rose has to help him to the couch again then he will scream. 

So what did that leave him with?   
Well. Hobart recommended him getting a slave. 

So that's how he got here. There's a brochure in his lap that Parks (recovering from his broken ribs and going stir crazy) procured for him, looking though the various people on offer. He didn't want just any old slave, of course. He needed a specific set of criteria fulfilled. Renting a slave seemed like a better investment then purchasing one. His pension was good, he could live comfortably on it, but the slave would need things as well, not to mention he was still footing some of Rose's expenses. 

So.   
1) Male.  
No way in Hell he was going to expose himself to a woman. No. No way. He was struggling along as it was, doing his best not to scar poor Rose.   
2) Tall and Strong  
So no short people. No one shorter then him was going to be able to carry his chair around. Rose can't even do that. He too, is going stir crazy.   
3) House keeping and medical training  
A slave from a harem was no use to him. He wasn't going to bed them, he just needed help.   
4)They needed to speak, or at least, understand English.   
He didn't speak any other languages.   
5) Cheap.  
Probably not getting a shiny new slave then. But he wasn't exactly a shiny new police man was he?   
6) He'd prefer if they were good looking.  
He'd appreciate good looking company. So what? 

Which leaves him with a few options, actually. Six pictures fit his criteria perfectly. A pale man with a rounded chin and curly hair. A tanned, muscular man with dozens of whip scars on his back and a warning for aggressive behavior. A very new slave who was cheap for running his mouth. A slave from a harem with house keeping training and a ponytail. A slave his own age. A dark coloured man with one eye. 

He looks each entry over twice. He removes the slave who ran his mouth and the one with aggressive warning. He didn't fancy dealing with either of those things. That leaves four. 

He notices two of them have active drivers licenses. Yes. Good. That would mean no more sympathetic taxi drivers. That left ponytail, and the pale one. 

Lawson studied each picture closely. Ponytail had his first language listed as Italian, was in good nick, had worked for two different masters, and was noted as popular. Pale one had no such credentials. He had served six masters prior to his coming to the agency, had a collection of skills outside of house keeping, and was commended on his cooking skills. 

Pale was rounded out, ponytail was sharp. Pale's lips were slightly parted. Ponytails were not. Pale was more attractive. He notices another note. Pale is mute. How fascinating. He drums his fingers, and decides that having a recommendation in cooking over rules, and picks up his phone to request the required records. 

…

Pale, or, as Lawson discovered, 9943, was not a problem slave. Certainly, he'd been punished, It was, of course, all listed, but very few of them actually seemed to be his fault. Primarily, he'd been a house slave, it said. He'd cared for animals and children, worked as a bed slave one time, and for the most part, seemed to behave himself well. 

Which was important. 

Apparently, his lack of speaking had come after the death of his third master, whom it was said he was close to. No one knew the actual reason why he didn't speak, but from what he gathers, it was that mostly, his placements didn't want him to, and enforced it. (There is a punishment early on for speaking out of line.) 

He has no reservations about placing a call for him. 

…

9943 arrives early the next morning, and Rose lets him and the keeper in. The first thing Lawson notes was that the picture he'd been given was quite old. 9943 was sickly pale, rather then just light coloured like he'd been in the images, and very thin. He frowned lightly but didn't let his displeasure show. He has Rose show 9943 into the kitchen while he spoke with the keeper. 

“Right. Rules. Nothing that will permanently damage the goods, a minimum of four hours sleep in a dark, quiet space required for optimal functionality, you're required to feed it one meal a day. Other then that, you're free to do what you will.” Lawson is struck with a daunting slightly disgusted feeling in his stomach as he thought about how much freedom he had over another person.   
“Right.”  
“I'll be back to collect 'em at the end of its time served.”   
“Right.”   
…

9943 thinks to himself that this house wasn't so bad. Hell. This placement would probably be not so bad. He had his instructions. He'd be assisting the man in the wheel chair. Not exactly a taxing job, then. But then again it could possibly be a double edged sword. Having a simple job might lead to him being stored. 

He, personally, couldn't think of anything worse. Storing, but the generally used term as slaves chatted amongst themselves, was the act of being put into a slave cup board for a prolonged amount of time. Hm. 

When he arrived, a woman who appeared to be caring for the man led him to the kitchen. He kept his eyes on her shoes. “Matthew says you don't speak. Is that true?”

Silence. 

No, he didn't speak. As far as he knew, he had a voice box that worked, but no matter how hard he tried, he could never force any words past his lips. But being mute had its advantages. He could pretend to be stupid. Masters usually gave him an easier time if they thought that he just wasn't smart enough to complete tasks. Self defense, really. 

It's a bit sad that he's been reduced to it but he is long past having any sense of pride in himself. He stares at the woman blankly. She sighs softly. “My name is Rose.” 

Didn't mean anything to him. 

“Do you have a name outside of your number I can call you by?” He wondered if the woman was actually stupid. “Well its not like you can tell me, you being mute and all. Can you nod and shake your head?” 

Nod. 

“Do you?” 

Blank stare. He is not about to give a piece of himself to someone he's not even working for, plus, how exactly did she expect him to tell her? Fool. She sighs softly, and turns her back on him. He looks around the kitchen, wondering exactly what he'd just waked in to. 

…

Well first things first, Lawson thought, shifting onto the couch, he would probably need to lay down some ground rules. He had Rose herded the slave into the sitting room, and he proceeded to walk, and stop in front of him. Lawson sighed at him. He did look like a bit of a sorry sight,but no matter. A few decent meals and good rest, he'd probably be fine. (Maybe he should get Blake to look him over? No. Blake's staunch abolitionist values would get in the way here.) 

“Right.” He begins. “I'm Matthew Lawson, and you will be working under me for the time being.” 

Nod. 

“Good. Nod for yes, shake for no.” Lawson decides, “This is my niece Rose, she's been helping me, but now you will be replacing her.”

Nod. 

…

Charlie lay still and silent. It was night. Matthew Lawson had given him a list of things he had to do, and where he was to sleep.   
Except it wasn't a slave cupboard, it was a room. Heh. It seemed so funny to him, that he would have a bed in his grasp and yet be in a position not to have access to it. The carpet was scratchy on his cheek, and it was cold. He tugged his knees up close to his chest and let out a tiny sigh. 

He's been waiting for hours now for the girl, Rose, to come secure him to something, but she hasn't yet. Surely they aren't about to leave him in such a way that he could escape if he were that way inclined? Perhaps this room belongs to the girl? It is not Lawson's room, because Charlie took him there earlier in the night and assisted him In getting ready for bed while the man continued to talk to him about what he would be doing. 

Housework.   
Helping him around.   
Shopping. 

It seemed so simple that he almost can't believe it. Rose works late. Lawson doesn't work at all. He was also given a brief intro to the others who frequented .

Mattie O'Brian, an abolitionist nurse who he was friendly with.   
Dr Lucien Blake, police surgeon, also an abolitionist, who was Lawson's doctor,   
Rose, obviously, his journalist niece, Charlie does not know what her views are and why she is staying here. From the way they spoke before, he would guess her to be abolitionist leaning, but otherwise neutral.   
Daniel Parks. Police constable. Views: unknown.   
Jean Beazley. Blake's house keeper. Pro slavery. 

Hm. An eclectic collection. 

And then, his 'master', Matthew Lawson. 

Retired police Super. 

And that was all he knew. 

Another sigh. He tugs his knees incrementally closer. Still no one comes for him. Eventually, he is unable to stave off sleep any longer, and drifts off.   
…

He wakes up to his alarm. The slave is standing by the dresser carefully examining his clothes. Had he instructed him to do that? He can't remember. It's weird to wake up to. What's even weirder is the smell of...Breakfast? Perched on the other half of Lawson's bed is a tray of breakfast. Scrambled eggs. Toast. Bacon. Tea It looks good. 

“Is this for me?” He asks the slave. It's still hot. Had he told the slave (He really needs something better to call him, just referring to him as 'the slave' makes him feel pretentious) his wake up time? Again: He can't recall. It doesn't help that the slave appears to be slow as well as mute. 

He turns to face Lawson, holding the shirt to his chest, and nods. “Thank you.” he smiles. The man gives him a blank stare, as if he cannot process it, and turns back to the shirts. He selects one that is plain tan in colour, and folds it over his arm, along with black trousers. 

Breakfast is delicious. The eggs were salty and fluffy. The tea was not too hot. The toast was golden brown and smeared with honey. The bacon was just the right side of crispy. He can see why he came with cooking recommendations. 

“Can you write?” Lawson asks, as the man assists him onto the couch.   
Nod.   
“Can you fetch me paper and a pen?” He does. “Will you write a name I can call you by?   
Nod.   
He writes Charlie. His handwriting is wonky, his A is mishapen. It is a start. He smiles.   
“Excellent.” Silence from Charlie, as expected. “I will, from now on, call you as Charlie. Will you respond to that?”  
Nod.   
…  
After a day of shopping, Lawson is pleasantly surprised by dinner. He had put Charlie in charge of buying the food. He was mostly glad to be out of the house. He'd spent most of the day watching Charlie examine apples carefully, and selecting flour. It was an interesting experience. It had taken a chunk out of his pension, but he can live with that, if Charlie's dinner is half as good as his breakfast. (Lunch had been brought while they were out. Charlie had knelt by his feet in the shopping center as was expected. Lawson insisted he should eat, however.) 

He was not in there supervising, he knows very little about the art of cooking and suspects he will only be in Charlie's way. Something smelled good, whatever he was making. Settling back, Lawson debated asking Charlie to serve him in front of the TV, but decided not to. He didn't want to make a bad impression on his first day. 

It did not take long for Charlie to emerge from the kitchen, and stand by the door way, awaiting instruction. One thing that annoyed him was that he seemed to be incapable of thinking for himself. He'd been under the impression Charlie was mute, not stupid. He found it frustrating, but kept it to himself. 

Charlie assists him into the dining room, and to sit at the table. There's one place set. A soup bowl with a spoon as well as a fork, and a bowl of some kind of thick looking soup. Charlie has even taken the liberty of pouring a glass of wine. He can see why he came with such recommendations for cooking. One thing just seems out of place…

“Did you forget something?” Charlie stares at him dumbly. Lawson keeps his cool. “Where are you going to eat?” Charlie blinks, and then turns his back and leaves, before returning with the slip of paper that had the rules that had to be abided by. Lawson watches Charlie's bitten down nail point to the instruction about feeding. “Yes I know I have to feed you.” Lawson said, “Serve yourself. Eat with me.”

Charlie studied him, before leaving, and returning with a bowl. Before he has time to kneel, as Lawson could see him thinking he points at the chair across from him. “Sit.” He does. He has a spoon clutched so tightly in his left hand that Lawson wondered what was going though his head. 

“Eat.” He smiled. Charlie watches him, and as soon as Lawson starts to eat, he follows in suit. Lawson is very impressed by the taste on his tongue. A rich combination of saltiness and savory broth, not to mention carefully cut vegetables and chicken. He's impressed. Except…  
“Did you start making this in the morning, before we left?”   
Nod.   
“It's delicious.” A slight smile graces Charlie's lips. 

A thought occurs to him. “Did you...Eat breakfast?”   
Shake.   
“Why not?” Charlie studied his soup as if it would provide him with answers. Lawson sighs softly. “Well, from now on, eat something every meal. It won't do me any good if you collapse from hunger.” Charlie looks uncomfortable, if such an expression were possible on a face that was showing nothing. His grip on his spoon was deathly tight and he seemed to be sitting on the edge of his chair. 

“Is there something wrong?”  
Shake.   
“You're just acting very...Strange. You don't have to eat with me if you-” Before he can finish Charlie has shot up from his seat, landed on his knees, and is kissing the hand that hadn't been eating. He doesn't even know how to reply. 

It punches him in the gut. Charlie was apologizing the only way he as able. He let his spoon fall and gently eased his hand out of Charlie's grip.   
…

He sighed softly, and ran his finger tips over the soft carpet. Usually, when a salve was put away for the night, they would be given at least a mattress pad. He understood slaves were undeserving of more, but it still hurt him. 

What did he know about being a slave? 

They existed solely for the enjoyment of their masters.   
They had no rights.   
Chairs, beds and most other furniture was not to be soiled by them.   
They ate, drank and breathed only when their masters allowed it. 

He had been doing all of those things, he was pretty sure. He gazed at the bed with longing. 

As far as things went, he'd been pretty lucky, he'd never unwillingly served as a body slave. Which is not to say he is a virgin, that's not true. When he'd been nineteen, he'd, well, simply put, he'd had sex with a girl he knew. It was. 

Fine. 

He didn't really understand all the nonsense about it however. Why so many people had dedicated their lives to getting it out of others. Why masters wanted it so badly. He supposed that it happened to all slaves in the end. And certainly this bed would be where Matthew Lawson would do it. Probably when his leg was more healed. 

It had been a long time since he'd been summoned to be a personal slave. Mostly he went in lots, tending to hotels or to parties and businesses. He quietly smoothed the carpet near his head in an attempt to calm himself. Lawson still had a lot of time until he was healed. Even when he was disgusted, or upset, he'd still been gentle. When Charlie had been kneeling and he could feel the upset pouring off him in waves, he'd still been gentle removing his hand. Kind in telling him there was no need. 

And the feeding. Oh, the feeding. Most masters did as the instructions said. But two meal? Maybe even three in a day, how many service slaves could say that they had that kind of luxury, no matter how short lived? He'd been ordered to sit at the table, and pretend to be free. At the shops, he'd insisted Charlie should eat too

And the praises. Oh, the praises. 

So at least, when he took Charlie onto the bed, he would be gentle. Maybe he would even allow him to stay in the bed after? That would be so good. One hand reaches to stroke the soft duvet near his head, It is soft. He would probably even pretend he was enjoying himself. He sighed again, and moved his hand away. God. He was so cold. 

…

He starts the next day the same as the previous. He awakens early. The sun is only just rising. He makes the same breakfast as the day before. It was simple and it had garnered him praise. And that was enough for him. 

He himself ate a single piece of toast. 

Charlie examined the freezer carefully. He'd been smart choosing soup. So when (and it always happened) he was beaten, he would not struggle to come up with something for Lawson's dinner. He had something tucked away. 

As far as his skills went, cooking was the only one that really mattered. It was the only reason a slave like him that was perceived as defective hadn't been 'put down' yet. 

He'd thought often about being put down. Usually it happened when he was six days without food, or eight days in storage. When he was beaten or the time he'd had three ribs broken. The procedure, every slave knew it. Strapped to a bed. A kind master would wait with you, assure that you had pleased them and wish you well. A cruel one would simply leave. If the doctor was kind, you would be given a sedative. If not, then they would just stick you. 

And then there would be pain, so much pain. Thrashing, screaming, vomiting,   
and then  
nothing. 

He looks at the eggs. 

He wouldn't mind being nothing. 

…

He serves Lawson the way he had the day before, since that had pleased him, and then went about selecting clothing for the day. For him, it was simple. He only had two sets It was a lot harder to pick something out for Lawson. 

The alarm goes off. 

Lawson rolls over. Wakes up. Greets Charlie. He inclines his head in a nod.   
Day two begins. 

…  
It is three nights later when he first meets the Blake house hold. 

Lawson insists on dressing him up. A jumper, a coat, a pair of pants. Socks. They clothes feel nice, and smell clean. Been so long since his clothes have felt this nice. He wants to memorize the feeling of soft wool under his fingers. 

They are going over for dinner, and Charlie should bake something to take for dessert. So he had baked a chocolate cake.   
Lawson told him the address and he drove them there. He tells Charlie to do what the doctor tells him because he will never do anything to hurt him.   
Nod.   
But he does not have to listen to Danny Mattie or Mrs Beazley.   
Nod.   
He will eat at the table with everyone else, and he will not kneel or kiss anyone's hand. He also does not have to kiss shoes either, but that part sounds like an after thought. 

Mrs Beazley lets them in. She lets Charlie hang his coat on the rack, even if he would much rather have kept it on. Lawson's clothes are pitifully big on him, and he looks like a child playing dress up. The coat helped hide it. She pats his hand. Pro slavery? Hm.

The trio head for the living room, where Danny (He assumes) and Mattie are watching the TV. He hears rustling in the kitchen and looks towards it longingly, Lawson gives him a not and he flees to the safety of something he knows. He knows kitchens. 

Charlie Presented Mrs Beazley with the cake, and she smiles at him.   
“I hope it tastes as good as it looks.”  
Nod.   
“I forgot. You don't speak.” She said, turning away, “Would you like to help in the kitchen?”   
Nod.   
“Alright. Well. Here.” She passes him a bowl of potatoes. “Help me peel these.” And he does. He likes to think he's doing a good job of it too because no one has told him to stop.   
…

He meets Dr Blake properly for the first time after dinner, when the man beckons him into his office. Charlie trailed after, as silent as he always was. Blake offers him a seat on the table, and he takes it. Blake clears his throat before he speaks. 

“Lawson would like me to look you over, although I would have thought he'd have done that when you arrived, if that's alright with you?” Charlie is already pulling off his jumper, and folding it. Blake leans on the door way, entering when his clothes are off. 

Blake has nice hands, Charlie thinks, watching them ghost over old injuries and sooth along his slightly chilled skin. It could almost be a good experience. He wonders why Lawson chooses to have him examined now. Perhaps he is planning it, wants to know if Charlie is good and strong. Maybe he just wants to punish him? Maybe this Doctor Blake is a lot more malicious then his warm smile and kind hands make him seem. 

But those are worries for the future.   
“I had some of your cake.” Blake said, conversationally, as he worked Charlie's wrist around in a circle. “It was delicious, we might have to have you over more often.” He smiles. Charlie holds in a sigh and nods dumbly. Regardless, he has to keep up the facade, no point in telling anyone the truth now. 

“You don't have to act with me.' Blake promises him, “I know that there's a lot more going on up there then you let anyone know.” Charlie watches him, and keeps his face carefully blank. Blake continues talking. “I hope Matthew is good to you. I know he can be a little...Rough, at times but really he tries his best.” 

And then a sudden change in tone. 

“If he ever hurts you, at all, in any way, or acts in a way that makes you uncomfortable then please know that you can come here and I will do everything in my power to protect and or help you.”   
Nod.   
“I don't think you will need to, but if something happens, then you have an ally in me.” He promised, and patted Charlie on the arm. Charlie glanced at the hand quizzically, and then returned his attention to his feet. Blake lets out a soft sigh. “Alright, Charlie.” He said, “I don't think you have any outstanding injuries, but is there anything you'd like me to take a look at?” Blake asked, as he finished examining an old burn on the underside of his left arm.  
Shake.   
“Didn't think so.” Blake said, and then followed that up with “Tell me, can you sign at all?”  
Shake. No one had ever bothered to teach him how.   
“Would you like to learn?” He would probably never get another option like this as long as he lived.   
Nod.   
“I'll talk to Lawson about it.” Blake assured him. “Now. Do you fancy a cup of tea?” 

Charlie spent the rest of the night sipping tea, while doing his best to look submissive and docile, listening to records with Blake. He would occasionally make a comment. Blake ends up sitting on the couch, but Charlie doesn't want to soil it, so he stays on the seat If Blake was attempting to try anything, then he didn't go though with it. 

When Lawson asks if he had a good time, the best he can offer is a truly genuine nod.   
…  
Charlie is so cold.   
It is the dead of winter by now, his fingers are frozen. His feet are blocks of ice. He sits up and looks at the bed carefully. It would be so nice. Maybe he could just lay there for tonight. It wasn't as if Lawson was checking if he came here or not… It was just him. He lays one hand on the soft blankets. Nothing changes. He feels the strong pull of desire. 

He moves away, to the bathroom in the hall and collects two towels. It did little to help. 

He only sleeps a little.   
He dreams of waking up and finding his toes frozen solid that seems so real when he wakes up he actually cries out of fear. Silently, of course.   
…

Lawson has never really thought too much on Slaves before he met Charlie. The man was…Well he wasn't sure. He watched Charlie bustle around, dusting shelves and pictures with a glassed over look on his face. The longer he watched Charlie, the stranger he felt, like he should be conversing with the silent man. “Blake and Jean have invited us over again this Friday. She says bring more of your beautiful chocolate cake.”   
Nod.   
He notices a circle of scar that encircled Charlie's left wrist. He wonders what had caused it.   
“And Blake says he would like you to come over once a week so he can teach you how to sign.”   
Nod.   
“Is there anything that man can't do?” Lawson wondered, to himself. Charlie turns to look at him for a moment, and then turned away again. “I suppose.” Lawson continued conversationally. “Do you fancy some music?” He asked, Charlie hesitated.   
Nod.   
“Put one on will you? I'm done with the TV anyway.” Charlie does as told, and puts on a record he recognizes from the night at Blake's house. Lawson declares it one of his favorites, and invites Charlie to sit with him on the lounge. 

Lawson hums along, and Charlie taps the rhythm on his leg with one hand, he isn't quite relaxed, but Lawson is quite pleased with the little display of personality that he doesn't even mind when Charlie wants to listen to the same song all afternoon.   
…  
It is raining. Not just a light drizzle. It's pouring. Roads are closed. People are battoning down windows. Charlie is at Blakes. 

Lawson was here too, but he was quite drunk so was everyone. It was apparently a celebration of some kind. Charlie had not bothered to find out what. So he just wandered around offering refills until they started going to bed. Blake, surprisingly was not drunk, but Charlie does not question it, even though the man did like to drink. He'd usually drank something on the occasions that Charlie saw him. 

Blake tells him, as he shows him to his room, that he didn't drink too much so that if something happened to Charlie he would be there to help. Charlie wonders why he would bother. It wasn't as if it really mattered what became of a slave. But Blake is so nice to him. Charlie disobeys Lawson and kneels down suddenly, taking Blake's hand to his lips and kissing it over and over because he's never had someone look out for him before, ever. 

He likes Lawson, he really does. Lawson gives him work, time away from the center, but Lawson still had the ability to essentially damn him to death if he felt so inclined. He was still his Master. Blake wasn't. Blake had no investment in wether he lives or died but he was still so good to him. 

Blake pauses and pats Charlie's hair with one hand in a comforting way. “Thank you, Charlie. I thought Lawson told you that you didn't need to do that anymore?”   
Nod.   
“I won't tell him. Let's just get you off to bed.” he said, opening the door to the upstairs room. He opens the top drawer and passes Charlie a throw blanket, “Just in case it gets any colder.” He smiles, before leaving Charlie alone. 

He lay on the floor, wrapped tightly in the blanket Blake had given him, so good to him, he thought, gently stroking his fingers along the blanket. It was so soft. He supposes he should have expected the floor tonight, it wasn't as if Blake had time to spare to clean out the slave closest in the kitchen, much less set it up.

He looks up at the bed, before tugging his knees close. The room was filled with boxes, three high, four high. A storage room then. Must have been a bedroom once. He sighs softly, before closing his eyes and willing sleep to remove his body from the chill. 

…

He dreams of an ocean of hands pulling his hair and skin. 

…

He wakes by banging over a box.   
And then nothing.   
And then arms and yelling. “I've got him. Jean keep everyone else out don't crowd him.” quiet. “Don't crowd him!”

Arms. 

Warm arms holding him against a dressing gown.   
He cries.   
…  
Lucien had been on the verge of sleep, just drifting off when he heard a solid thump coming from Charlie's room. He jumps to his feet and hurried up the stairs fast as he could, hoping that Charlie was not hurt. 

Charlie is lying on the floor, wrapped tightly in the blanket he'd passed him before. A box is on the floor, having been knocked over. Charlie is lying still and his eyes are glassed over. The contents of the box, mostly stationary, have landed on and around him. His eyes are unseeing. Blake recognizes the situation right away. A nightmare.   
He gathers him close, pressing his face close and holding him tight. “I've got him. Jean, keep everyone else out, don't crowd him.” 

And she does, but Mattie still pushes her way in to see. Blake must retaliate. “Don't crowd him!” She retreats, and he strokes Charlie's hair as he begins to cry. It was heartbreaking to see. Charlie seems to almost not see him, not feel him. Not for another few seconds. Enough time for him to feel guilty for yelling at Mattie. Then he feels Charlie's hands on the front of his singlet trying to anchor himself to earth.   
He gently breathes out “It's alright. I've got you. It's alright.” hoping desperately that his words were getting to him. He does not hold his breath. Charlie's silent and frankly quite unnerving crying continues for almost five minutes before he slowly calms to just the odd hiccup. Still silent. He wonders what Charlie might have sounded like if he could talk. Deep probably. Warm, maybe. Hesitant with anxiety and having seen so many untold horrors, probably. 

They sit for another five minutes. Enough time for Blake to really get a feel for their situation. Charlie's bed was unslept in, and he was on the floor wrapped in a blanket. He'd kicked over a box in the night. He tries to assist Charlie to stand, to take him into the kitchen maybe wash his face, but as soon as they are up, Charlie throws himself onto his knees with a heavy thump. He presses his forehead firmy against Blake's bare feet, arms tightly wrapped around his legs. 

He doesn't know how to respond. He knew Charlie had slave conditioning, but he didn't know he was capable of something like this. Then he's up, and signing 'sorry' over and over again, before swaping his curled fist for thumbs up,   
'kind'  
His fingers swap again, almost as If he is reaching out for him.   
'merciful'  
He doesn't want Charlie to sign master so he drops to his own knees, and wraps his hands tightly around Charlie's, forcing them into tight balls.   
“I am not your master.” He said, softly. Charlie has a rarely seen expression other then blankness on his face. He pulls Charlie's hands close. “You had a bad dream. It happens all the time.” He murmured. “I have bad dreams. Mattie has bad dreams. Lawson has bad dreams. It's okay.” He does not know if Charlie is apologizing for crying or for the nightmare. He looks towards the doorway. 

Down the stairs, Lawson is with Jean, looking concerned. Blake closes the door, and leads Charlie to the bed, but he seemed hesitant to sit on the bed. “Why won't you sit on the bed?” He asks softly, “Why were you sleeping on the floor?”  
Silence.   
Blake sits on the bed, and tugs Charlie to sit with him. After a long moment, he kisses Charlie's hand gently, before allowing him to pull it back frantically. “Sleep.” He advised, and gently pressed Charlie onto the bed, and tucked him under the sheets. 

Charlie let out a silent sigh of pleasure.   
…

He felt...Craddled. His body was surrounded by a soft blanket, on a soft mattress. His head was supported by soft pillows. His hand was clasped kindly in warm ones. Like he was floating, almost. He must be dead, then. Sad. He'd almost been happy, so happy. Then he had to go and ruin it all, like he always does. He wonders if Blake was the one to administer the killing syringe. He would have liked that, to go out one last time, Blake holding his hand. 

Has Lawson assured him he was good? Who was going to take care of him now that Charlie was gone, he wondered. 

Then he woke up. 

And he was not dead. 

He was very much alive, and in Blake's house, because it was raining last night, and Lawson was drunk. And it was still raining. 

Blake was lying across from him, relaxed in sleep. Charlie let out a silent sigh of contentment. The bed was so warm, he could see why a free person would not want to get out of bed. Slaves liked to be up, working. Free people liked to rest. He sort of wants to be free. 

He banishes the thought. 

He will never be free. Can never be free. You have to be owned by someone for at least eight years before you can be freed, and as a slave that was hired out, he had no chance. People didn't get attached to slaves they hired out for a week. 

Freedom does not come to slaves like him. And why would it? What had he done to deserve it? And a freed slave was just a walking target anyway. He has no future. So he must enjoy the present. The present was here in bed with Doctor Lucien Blake. 

Warm hands in his cold ones. The softness of the bed as it cradled him. All his bruises and poorly healed bones thanks the softness. Every aching muscle and pained joint just felt. Better. He could still feel them, but it was so muted it hardly bothered him. He lets out a soft sigh. 

When he died, he would like very much for Blake to be the last face he ever saw. When one is a slave, you took any and all kindness offered to you. And then Blake also woke up. “Good morning.” Charlie stared at him blankly. “I say we stay in bed for another few minutes, and then we can go make some breakfast.” Charlie studied him, and then closed his eyes. Blake laughed softly.   
“No, It's morning now, it's time to wake up.' He opened his eyes.   
Nod.   
“Well done.”  
…  
Lawson never asks about the night. He is grateful. But Lawson is also starting to get better. He checks the date for the millionth time. 

Three days until he was gone. 

He'd already had his final lesson with Blake, and now he was baking so that for a few nights after he was gone, Lawson would have food. So far he's baked scones and soup. He is working on a cake to give to Blake as a thank you gift for all that he had done. 

Despite his teaching Charlie to sign, he still preferred to communicate as sparsely as he possibly could. Even with Lawson, who, as a sign of good will, had learned a handful of signs so if he had to, Charlie really could communicate with him. On the rare occasions he did talk back, Lawson would have him write on paper, more often then not.

Different strokes for different folks.   
…  
What was Charlie doing in there? It was three am and he can hear the soft noises of Charlie cooking in the kitchen.   
“Charlie?” He asks, looking in. Walking with a cane now was good for his leg. He quite liked not having to have Charlie push him around. Not that it was a comment on Charlie's wheelchair pushing capabilities because he was quite good as far as things went. He was careful not to walk to fast and not to roll over bumpy ground. 

But he liked having at least the illusion of independence. 

Charlie is icing a cake at the bench. There are three pots on the stove behind him and he is flour stained. He is frozen like a deer in headlights.   
“It's three am. You don't need to be cooking right now. Go to bed.” Charlie signs something that Lawson doesn't understand. After a few moments he pushes a notepad to him. 

Charlie writes  
“I am leaving you in three days. I am making sure you have enough food until you have purchased a suitable full time slave.”  
Lawson pauses. He'd actually forgotten about that. Charlie has just become a fixture in his life he can't imagine it without him.   
“Oh.”  
“I am very happy to have served you, I thought it only fair that I should repay your kindness the only way that I know how.”   
“Oh.” Lawson goes back to bed, not really sure what he should be thinking.   
…  
Charlie sat on the floor by the bed, feeling it over and over again. Lawson had not touched him. Lawson had let him be. Even when he disgraced him by having a breakdown in front of a friend, he had not touched him. Tomorrow, he is leaving so tonight, he will sleep in the bed. He will never have a placement as good as this again, he is sure. So just one night. Of course, he will be up by the morning, and re make the bed and Lawson will never know. 

It is exactly as good as he imagined it would be. Soft and warm and comforting. The sheets smell clean. He breathes the smell into his lungs and memories it as good as he can. Chances are he will never have this again. He's been a slave his whole life and he's never had a bed to himself. 

He thinks of his family, as well as he can remember them. His mother had been the slave of a police man. When he'd been born, the paperwork had been started to raise him as a free man. He recalls the look on his mothers face when they told him he'd been shot. Her hands in his hair as she realized her son would be a slave like her. Her kissing his head over and over before he was taken from her to a training ground. The last words he can ever remember saying are “I love you, Mum.” And she had told him “Bend, do not break. Charlie they will try and break you, but you are strong and kind and good.” And he'd nodded and been so determined as he followed the lady keeper to her car.

(But he broke, as people always, always do.) 

The paperwork said it had been at his third master he'd stopped speaking. So when he'd been nineteen. But that was a lie simply put there to desperately try and not put off possible renters.

 

For the first time in his life, he missed his dad. He watched Mattie and Danny speak with Blake, the way he looked at them. So fatherly. He would give anything for that, he thought. He gently stroked the pillow by his head, allowing the wonderful softness to hold his scarred wrist. His last thought, before drifting off, is how grateful he is to Lawson for allowing him to experience it, even if it didn't last. Even if he didn't last.   
…  
He does not see why his leaving should disrupt Lawson's day. He makes breakfast, and takes it up to him. Sets it on the bed. Selects clothes for him, and then settles by the door, waiting for the alarm. Lawson wakes. Smiles at Charlie, as if he didn't think this would be the last time. Charlie smiles dumbly back, as if he were just mindlessly mimicking him. 

Lawson gives him a sad smiles, and Charlie leaves as he dressed. He washed the dishes in the sink. He lets Rose in. She pats him on the arm and thanks him for caring for her uncle. He inclines his head for her. 

Blake comes over within the hour, holding a slip of paper tightly. Charlie watches him for a while, before beginning to dust.

And then it happens.   
“Charlie!” Charlie comes to the call of his name, the way he always does. Blake is sitting at the table looking at peace. “I would like to speak with you regarding your placement.”   
Nod.   
“Obviously, Lawson doesn't need your help as much as he used to and the company is coming back for you but this is an owner ship document. If I sign this, then you will become my property, since currently, Lawson is not in a position to purchase you. ”  
Nod.   
“And please, think about this. If you like working for the company then that is all well and good but I thought I would give you the option to stay with us instead. We do like you.” He looks at Lawson, who smiles. This didn't happen, not to slaves like him. Beautiful bed slaves, perhaps. But he was not beautiful (although he is more beautiful then he was. Three good meals a day had made him look a lot healthier Lawson was right even If Charlie didn't know it) and he was no bed slave. Just a regular service slave...And yet. They wanted him to stay. He could stay with the good food and music and warm hands and sharing the table with Lawson and the “thank you, Charlie's. He doesn't really even need to think about it.   
“We all like you. And if you agree, then you can move in with Blake, and learn all the things he teaches you.' Charlie seems slightly upset by that. “Or you can stay with me, if you like. I feel like the place would be a bit lonely without you.” He looks at Blake who nods.   
Nod.   
Blake smiles as he signs. Lawson pats the couch next to him, and Charlie sits. After a moment, he signs something at Blake. Blake translates, as he heads out. “Charlie says thank you, he is very appreciative of the offers and he hopes that he will be able to serve you for as long as you will allow.”   
Lawson offers him an awkward sort of huge, and doesn't even say anything when he feels Charlie's hands tight on the back of his shirt. As if he never wanted to let go. And to Lawson, that means so much more then hand kissing ever could.


End file.
